


anger has no place between brothers

by Fabelhaft (Blue_Blood_Monarch)



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Giuliano's death is mentioned, I just really love Sandro and Giuliano, M/M, author took some creative lisence, with the ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22372675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Blood_Monarch/pseuds/Fabelhaft
Summary: "Sorry."-There, in the doorway, was little Giuliano in only his nightshift- bare feet stark against the cold floor. "I'm s-s-sorry, Sandro."(Giuliano and Sandro share a brotherhood different to that between Giuliano and Lorenzo, but no less significant. No less powerful)
Relationships: (if you squint) - Relationship, (mentioned) - Relationship, Giuliano de' Medici & Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici, Giuliano de' Medici/Simonetta Vespucci, Lorenzo "Il Magnifico" de' Medici & Sandro Botticelli, Sandro Botticelli & Giuliano de' Medici, Sandro Botticelli/Giuliano de' Medici
Kudos: 26





	anger has no place between brothers

It was storming outside. The rain was raging, battering against the roof with an angry vengeance, the wind howling and lightning crackling. The Florentine air was thick with it, pulsing with each terrible roar of thunder.

In his bed, a young Sandro Botticelli shivered, wrapping himself tighter in his blankets.

Only a few months previous he would have been out on the streets in this, would be wet to the bone and shivering from the icy cold of the rain that sunk its fingers through your skin and hooked itself on your very bones, settling there with a chill that touched your heart. 

It was a terrifying thought, that without the Medici family's generosity he would be in that position.

It was a thought far too dark for a ten year old boy, but then Sandro had always seemed older than his age.

"S-sandro?"

There was a quiet shuffling, almost inaudible over the weather, but Sandro's ears were as sharp as his mind.

"Giuliano?"

"Yes."

Sandro sat up, surprised. "What are you doing here?" He hissed. There, in the doorway, was little Giuliano in only his nightshift- bare feet stark against the cold floor. "You'll get a chill," he scolded.

Giuliano's face fell, bottom lip trembling. "I'm s-s-sorry, Sandro," he wailed, running over and throwing his arms around Sandro's neck. "I’m sorry I was mean. I don't want you to be upset with me anymore," he snuffled into Sandro's neck.

Sandro sighed, heaving the boy up onto the bed next to him. "It's okay," he sighed. "Don't cry."

Giuliano nodded, rubbing at his eyes. "Sorry, Sandro."

Sandro smiled, ruffling his hair. "I forgive you."

Giuliano smiled, small and wobbly. "It wasn't any fun playing by myself," he mumbled, looking down at his hands as he fiddled with them. "And I don't like it when you're mad at me."

"Then you shouldn't have stolen my paint," Sandro pointed out. 

Giuliano nodded, miserable. "I know. But you weren't _playing_ with me."

"Because I was busy."

"But you're always busy! And you're always with Lorenzo, you _never_ play with me anymore."

Sandro sighed. "I know," he conceded. "I'll play with you tomorrow then, okay?"

Giuliano beamed. "Promise?"

Sandro nodded solemnly. "Promise."

An oath between friends that would become brothers; not in blood but bond. Different to the bond between Giuliano and Lorenzo, but no less significant. No less powerful.

There was an especially loud _crack_ of thunder, and Giuliano flinched, face paling.

"You mother will be upset if she finds you wandering around at this time of night," he pointed out casually. Giuliano would be too embarrassed to admit that he was scared. "You'll have to sleep here tonight."

Giuliano's face brightened with relief as he instantly buried himself in the blanket, wriggling next to Sandro and taking his hand. "Thanks, Sandro, you're the _best._ "

Sandro grinned. "I am," he agreed, lying back down. "Goodnight, Giuliano.

"Goodnight, Sandro," he whispered, turning his face digging his cold nose into Sandro's neck, and Sandro found himself smiling as Giuliano's breath soon evened out into sleep. 

Giuliano and Lorenzo were inseparable, even at this age, but Giuliano had swiftly attached himself to Sandro, and with him came his brother, until the three of them were rarely seen without each other. That was, apart from when Sandro and Lorenzo, being the eldest two, were doing their schooling. 

Giuliano was still there, curled up next to him and holding his hand, when Sandro woke to the sun's rays poking through his window, warming his face. 

He was loud, often vexing, but he was Sandro's friend and he loved him.

He hated being mad at Giuliano, too.

* * *

That night faded from their memories, the edges blurring until Sandro could only recall the feel of Giuliano's hand in his and the love that had blossomed to life within his chest, warm and delicate. As delicate and vulnerable as Giuliano himself, as much as he presented to be otherwise.

It was a love that had only grown in time, a love now that made it _hurt_ to see Giuliano as this sour, rancid beast that was unrecognisable to the sweet, carefree boy that had always lived in Giuliano's heart.

They had never fought like this before, but then Giuliano had never had that horrid, dead look in his eye, either. 

Sandro wanted to comfort him, but Giuliano was a rose; beautiful and thorned. More so now than ever. Come too close and you'd come away dripping blood.

"He's grieving. Lashing out. Don't pay him any heed, you hear?"

Lorenzo's words were appreciated, but Sandro already knew that.

Giuliano had been many things, and not all of them good, he wasn't blind to that, but he had never been cruel. He had never hurt without later regretting it, not when it mattered.

* * *

This time Sandro came to him. They had not shared a bed since they were boys- perhaps it should remain that way, but Sandro knew that sometimes one just needed to be held; when one felt like they were splintered and likely to fall apart, being held was all that kept them together. 

Giuliano didn't so much as stir when Sandro entered his room that night. The air was soured by the taste of wine, strongest around Giuliano. Sandro wrinkled his nose against it, but lay next to his friend, laying his hand between them wordlessly. 

Grief, sweat and the stale smell of old wine. That's what Giulano smelt like, now. He had used to smell like the warm Florentine sun, leather and horses. Freedom and youth. Though Sandro supposed those had been stolen from him with Simonetta's death; violent and swift in that moment, Giuliano had been soured. Broken.

This was but a husk of the vibrant young man Sandro knew, but how better to fill that husk than with the art and love Sandro could provide?

Giuliano, still with his back to him, didn't hesitate in taking it. He squeezed it, rolled on his back and held it to his chest like it was a lifeline. _I'm sorry_ , the tremble in his hands said. _I'm so tired,_ it cried, _so weary, so pained._

They didn't need words that night. Similar to the way Lorenzo and Giuliano always seemed to know what the other was thinking, Sandro and Giuliano remained silent, the simple contact between them speaking louder than any platitudes ever could.

* * *

Sandro wished those two words had remained unspoken, because hearing them uttered with some of the last of Giuliano's breath haunted him for as long as he lived.

Half of his heart died with Giuliano, and he knew Lorenzo was no better.

“Sorry.”

_"I'm s-s-sorry, Sandro."_

(Giuliano had died twofold; that boy had died with Simonetta, and now it was time for the man to join them both in paradise.

Without Sandro.)

It hurt.

It hurt more than Sandro could describe, so he didn't. He painted. For Simonetta, for Giuliano, for himself.

He painted because if he could paint him, then he would never die.

(It was a cheap comfort in the end)


End file.
